


tongues of flame

by flamboyantgentleman



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bottom Dorian Pavus, Canon Divergence, M/M, Sex Positive, Sexual Tension, Swordplay, Top Cullen Rutherford, brothel, escort dorian, if you know what i mean, literally so much sexual tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 18:52:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4716746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamboyantgentleman/pseuds/flamboyantgentleman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tawdry dare leads Cullen to seek out the services of a dashing courtesan named Dorian. Will he regret their night of passion when the elusive Dorian becomes a daily fixture in the Inquisition?</p><p>Written for the Cullrian Mini-Bang on tumblr. Updates regularly. Come for the sexual tension, stay for the man-angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I. dusk

**Author's Note:**

> here we are, five months of keyboard smashing later! i'd like to thank my collab partner, international-house-of-pavus (seriously, how do I link on here? I forgot how to HTML after a day of too many coding classes)! she's been so supportive, and her art is really a huge inspiration to this fic. i can't wait to include it!
> 
> anway - most of this is written, so please stick around for more. i love your feedback here, and on my tumblr (grootlyfe). enjoy!

_We won’t keep you long,_ they said. _Just a few rounds of cards,_ they said – and yet here he is, shivering in his smallclothes while Josephine grins wickedly into her palm.

“Care for another round, Commander?” she asks pleasantly, fanning the cards out over her face to obscure her smile.

Cullen groans, shoving his own cards into the discarded pile and taking a long swig of ale. “I’m afraid I don’t have much left to bet,” he says, good humor doused in the chill of the pub.

“You’re not naked yet,” Blackwall points out gruffly, his own beer sloshing over the side of his mug as he gestures.

Josephine stares at him pointedly.

“I’m not –” He shakes his head, grinning despite himself. “A game of _cards,_ you said.”

She smiles sweetly, shuffling the cards between her delicate fingers. “It was not a lie... per se.”

Varric shakes his head, looking at her with unbridled amusement. “I gotta say, Curly,” he drawls, “never thought I’d be getting to know you this well.”

Cullen’s blush is met with a hearty chuckle, and Bull clasps him none too gently on the back. “We got what we came for, right? Never seen the Commander unwind like this.” He grins at that, and Cullen can feel a boyish smile splitting his own expression. It’s true that he hasn’t had much time to relax, given the recent demands of the Inquisition. His men are spilling from the small streets of Haven, growing too large in number to be contained by the Chantry walls. His solemnity is what has kept him grounded, sturdy in the face of such turmoil… but even he can’t deny that it’s nice to forget the woes of Thedas for one evening.

Who knew that getting naked was all it took to forge friendships?

“Indeed.” Josephine laughs indulgently, more at ease than Cullen has seen her in weeks. He can guess that he wasn't the only one in need of a respite.

“Y’know,” Bull continues, “I was pretty wrong about you.” His big hand squeezes Cullen’s shoulder, gentler this time. “Thought you had a real stick up your ass. But maybe you don’t need to get laid after all, chief.”

“Well, I don’t know about _that_ ,” Varric interjects, and Cullen can feel himself reddening again. Maker damn him, his blush always seems to give him away…

He hardly notices the way Bull is looking at him at first, squinting in thought.

“What?” he asks, almost petulant. His ears burn under Bull’s gaze, and he has to swallow the urge to cover himself.

Bull shrugs slightly, as if resigning himself to his thoughts. “When _was_ the last time you got laid?”

“Are— _maker,_ are you that drunk?” Cullen sputters, eyebrows drawing together.

Varric’s chortle cuts through the weight of Bull’s answering smirk. “I think he’s just curious. Can’t say I’m not.”

“I’m not… This is hardly professional,” Cullen implores, sending Josephine a pleading look. She only tilts her head in a slight shrug of acknowledgement, eyes lighting with a demure smile.

Bull lifts his hands in surrender. “No offense meant,” he says easily. “I forget how touchy you humans are about your sex.”

Cullen sighs, raking his fingers through his pale hair. “...You think me prudish, don’t you?” he asks, trying not to sound disappointed.

Bull just shrugs. “To be fair, you’ll all pretty damn prudish compared to the Qun.”

“And here I never imagined that the Qun would be so fun,” Varric interjects, lacing his fingers under his chin.

Bull laughs, a hearty sound that travels through Cullen like the warm burn of ale. “Food, shelter, sex. What’s the difference? Everybody needs to release a little tension sometimes, just like everybody needs to eat.”

“Y’know, big guy, not everybody releases tension that way,” Varric says.

“Maybe not.” Bull jostles Cullen playfully, sticking a massive thumb in his direction. “But I’d guess by the blush on our Commander’s cheeks that he hasn’t had much of a choice lately.”

Cullen rubs at the back of his neck, sending Josephine another pleading look. “In my defense, it hasn’t particularly been a priority.”

This time, Cullen’s helpless expression doesn’t escape Josephine. “Perhaps we should return to besting the Commander through card games, before his blush threatens to swallow him,” she suggest mildly, concealing a mischievous smile.

Cullen sighs, exasperated. “I fail to see how divesting me of what little dignity I have left is any better.”

“I’ve got a proposition for you,” Bull says, folding his big arms on the table. “If Josie loses, we don’t get to tease you anymore. And if she wins… you gotta take care of that little _tension_ problem.”

Cullen hardly has the grace to keep himself from looking downright incredulous. “And how do you suppose I do that? By seducing one of my colleagues?”

“There’s this thing called a brothel,” Bull responds dryly. “You oughta check it out sometime.”

Cullen wrings his hands, considering Bull’s offer. Josephine is a force to be reckoned with… but he and the qunari have been evenly matched so far. A slim chance to reign in his dignity is better than none – especially when the alternative is equally humiliating. “I accept,” he says finally, and Josephine looks positively delighted. “But only if you play me instead.”

Bull huffs out a surprised laugh, and Cullen has to hide his smile at the Ambassador’s crestfallen look.

He extends his hand for Cullen to shake, eyes crinkling at the edges.

“You got a deal, chief.”

 

 _Luck,_ Cullen thinks, _is not on my side._ He glances down at his cards again, swallowing to keep from thumbing at them nervously. _Maybe if I can play through one more round—_

Varric crows triumphantly as Bull draws the Angel of Death card, hefting his mug from the table. “Alright, boys. Time to show ‘em.”

Bull inclines his chin towards Cullen. “You first,” he says.

Cullen draws his brows together, laying his hand on the table and ignoring Josephine’s knowing smile.

Bull’s grin is almost rapacious as he sweeps his cards over Cullen’s – a full house. “I guess luck wasn’t on your side.”

Cullen draws his fingers through his hair, steeling himself to his fate. “Nobody can know of this,” he says, feeling a headache coming on.

Bull shrugs easily. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Varric tilts his mug towards Cullen, a surreptitious grin lighting his face. “Don’t worry, Curly. We’re all looking forward to seeing you more _well rested_.”

Cullen stacks the cards neatly, handing them off to Josephine with an air of defeat. “All in good fun, Commander,” Bull says, jostling him. “Nobody’s gonna make you go through with it.”

“Thank you, Bull, but… considering my honor is the only thing I have left, I’d like to keep my word.” Cullen offers him a lopsided smile, resigned to his fate.

“Good.” Bull winks, tossing a coin into Cullen’s hand. “Do yourself a favor and ask for Dorian.”

  


\-------------------------

  


The patron leads Cullen to his room, opening the door and tipping her head with a practiced smile. “The escort you have requested will be here soon,” she says, her tongue heavy with Rivaini accent. “Please enjoy your evening, serah.” She bats her lashes at him coyly and he reddens, feeling every bit the blushing virgin.

Her hips sway as she leaves and he averts his eyes, turning his attention to the room in front of him. It’s small, typical for the coin he’s paid, but the lush furs and pillowing silks that line the bed lend it an undeniable air of elegance. He sits, clears his throat, rubs absently the hilt of the sword at his hip. He’s entirely out of his element here – he’s visited brothels once or twice, often at the behest of his templar peers, but there’s always been something about it that felt contrived to him.

 _You got trouble gettin’ laid or something, Commander?_ Bull had joked, clapping a huge hand on his back. _Man as pretty as you, oughta be no problem._

 _It isn’t trouble, exactly,_ he had wanted to say. He isn’t virtuous enough to deny the pleasures of a warm bed, and he certainly isn’t as much of a stuttering schoolboy as his colleagues might like to think him. The trouble comes with the posturing, the subtleties of courting that have always seemed to allude him. His skills lie in the practical, the sturdy – but a hand without a sword?

He shifts, supposing with a sigh that it doesn’t matter when he’s paying for his pleasure in coin.

His thoughts are interrupted by a stark knock on the door, and he rises automatically. “Might I come in?” the visitor asks, his voice lilting with something richer than the common tongue.

“I… yes, of course,” Cullen says, straightening his spine.

The man slips in and closes the door behind him with a flourish, turning his grey eyes on Cullen. He’s undeniably attractive, the masculine geometry of his jaw curving around an elegant moustache and smiling mouth. His dark, supple skin is draped in translucent silks, one shoulder exposed to the cool air.

“Dorian, at your service,” the man says warmly, arching his chin toward Cullen and sweeping into a half-bow.

Cullen has to resist bringing a hand to the hilt of his sword out of habit. It makes him feel dignified, sturdier beneath the armor. “I’m Cullen,” he says.

“ _Cullen,_ ” Dorian repeats, mouth curling sensually around the name, “a pleasure to meet you.” He sways over to the edge of the bed and sits, fixing Cullen with a coquettish grin. “They didn’t warn me that you would be quite so…handsome.”

Cullen rubs at the back of his neck, feeling the skin warm under his hand. “I suppose I was better warned than you, then,” he says, and his own boldness surprises him. _This is only an escort, after all,_ he reminds himself. _You’re not here to make a lasting impression._

Dorian laughs, a sound as warm and sweet as honey. “Do not believe anyone who tells you flattery will get you nowhere,” he says jovially.

“A skill in which I find myself lacking,” Cullen confesses.

Dorian tilts his head, amused. “None the matter. As much as _I_ might enjoy it, you did not pay coin to tell me how beautiful I look all evening.”

Cullen gives him an abashed smile, weary of his own stoicism.

Dorian stands at that, shifting just closer. “Such lovely armor,” he purrs, looking over Cullen in a way that feels almost sinful. “You must be with the Inquisition.”

Cullen guesses that the inference isn’t a hard one to make – in such a small town as Haven, even the less frequented establishments must be flourishing from the Inquisition’s business. “A fair conclusion,” he says simply, unwilling to discuss his involvement any further.

“Inquisition soldiers aren’t an unusual sight,” Dorian explains, confirming his suspicions. “Something tells me, however, that this must be your first time here.”

“I am… well, yes. I cannot say that I’m acquainted with this establishment.”

“Lucky me, to be your welcoming party!” Dorian responds with a hearty chuckle. He advances pleasantly, resting a ring-encrusted hand on Cullen’s arm. “Do you want to know how I came to such a conclusion?”

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt.” Cullen takes the bait, hoping Dorian won’t comment on his air of inexperience.

“First, I simply can’t imagine that you would forget a face as lustrous as mine,” Dorian drawls lightheartedly, “and second…” He brushes his fingers down Cullen’s arm, stroking the smooth metal. “Forgive me, but you do seem rather tense.”

Cullen realizes that he is tense, the muscles of his arm clenched in anticipation of Dorian’s touch. He sighs, attempting to relax. “I’m afraid this wasn’t my idea,” he says frankly. “One of my colleagues took it upon himself to… improve my disposition. I bet against him, and lost.”

“And here you are.” Dorian cocks his head, and Cullen’s eyes are drawn immediately to his lips. “I do hope I make a worthy consolation prize.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean…” Cullen trails off, assuaged by Dorian’s balmy smile. “I only meant that I don’t often make time for such distractions. Not without a little prodding, as it is.”

“I am not one to bed the unwilling, messere,” Dorian says, and there’s a note of sincerity in his voice that puts Cullen at ease. “But if you do choose to put your coin to good use…” He leans in, lips warm against the shell of Cullen’s ear. “…you’ll be glad you made that bet.”

The tickle of Dorian’s breath on his skin sends a shudder down Cullen’s spine. He lets the moment taper off into silence, feeling the weight of desire settle low in his stomach. “I am a man of my word, after all,” he says, hand coming to rest tentatively on Dorian’s waist.

Dorian presses his lips to the sensitive spot below Cullen’s ear, waits for his silent assent before he drags them down in a wet arc. “An excellent decision,” he says, mouth curving into a smile against Cullen’s jaw.

Cullen makes a quiet noise, bearing his neck for Dorian. Dorian mouths hotly at the exposed skin, hands slipping beneath his cloak to trace the shape of his armor. He pulls back, and the desire is so bright in his eyes that Cullen can hardly swallow the heat that courses through his veins.

“Do you enjoy this?” he asks without thinking.

Cullen’s eyes follow the pink of Dorian’s tongue as it darts out to swipe across his lips. “Enjoy what?” the escort says, goading.

“Enjoy the… intimacy. Your work, as it is.”

“Do I enjoy the sex, you mean?” Dorian asks with a teasing smirk. “Sometimes. I can’t honestly say that every client is as delectable as you.”

Cullen reddens at that. He never meant to seek special treatment, only some kind of… equity. Common ground, perhaps.

“But I enjoy the attention,” Dorian continues with a flourish of his wrist.

“I just don’t want you to feel like you ha—”

“Like I have to? Dear boy.” Dorian unclasps Cullen’s cloak, giving him a coy look as it falls to the floor around him. “Your chivalry is endearing, but be rest assured that I am here because I choose to be.” He walks his fingers up Cullen’s chest, stopping to toy at one of the buckles. “And I have a magnificent feeling that tonight will be absolutely _electric._ ”


	2. II. eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen's evening in the brothel unfolds, and the dashing escort Dorian proves to be every bit as capable as he seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> porn. lascivious porn, all of it. much thanks to those who waited, and hello to new readers!  
> i hope this chapter sates your appetites, because it's about to dissolve into some slooooow burn... ;)  
> THANK YOU x 3204234 to my impossibly talented artist, international-house-of-pavus @ tumblr, whose work is featured in this chapter (with more to come)!  
> anyway - enjoy, and come back soon for more xo

__

_Cullen makes a quiet noise, bearing his neck for Dorian. Dorian mouths hotly at the exposed skin, hands slipping beneath his cloak to trace the shape of his armor. He pulls back, and the desire is so bright in his eyes that Cullen can hardly swallow the heat that courses through his veins._

_“Do you enjoy this?” he asks without thinking._

_Cullen’s eyes follow the pink of Dorian’s tongue as it darts out to swipe across his lips. “Enjoy what?” the escort says, goading._

_“Enjoy the… intimacy. Your work, as it is.”_

_“Do I enjoy the sex, you mean?” Dorian asks with a teasing smirk. “Sometimes. I can’t honestly say that every client is as delectable as you.”_

_Cullen reddens at that. He never meant to seek special treatment, only some kind of… equity. Common ground, perhaps._

_“But I enjoy the attention,” Dorian continues with a flourish of his wrist._

_“I just don’t want you to feel like you ha—” ___

_“Like I have to? Dear boy.” Dorian unclasps Cullen’s cloak, giving him a coy look as it falls to the floor around him. “Your chivalry is endearing, but be rest assured that I am here because I choose to be.” He walks his fingers up Cullen’s chest, stopping to toy at one of the buckles. “And I have a magnificent feeling that tonight will be absolutely electric.”_

__

_A sudden tingle on Cullen’s skin punctuates the word, sending a slew of sparks dancing across his armor for a brief instant. Dorian looks positively smug. “Now,” he says, “why don’t we make a little_ magic?” 

  
  


His lips meet Cullen’s in a flurry of heat, slick and parted and already flush with need. The kisses are heady, scorching, and Cullen circles Dorian in his arms to bring him closer. 

He sucks in a breath of air when they finally part, and Dorian looks at him through crescent eyelashes. “You’re a mage?” he asks, voice hoarse with want and surprise. 

“However did you guess?” Dorian replies, leaning in playfully to swipe his tongue over Cullen’s lips. 

Something in him shivers, threatening to overwhelm the pleasant warmth. _A mage,_ he thinks, and somewhere distant his mind swims with fear and anger. But the sensation of Dorian’s mouth on his brings Cullen back to the moment, heady and vibrant and… _safe._ Now, he thinks, is not the time for doubt – it has already kept him from intimacy for far too long. 

“I was a templar, once,” he finally breathes out. He’s surprised to hear Dorian chuckle at the words, cast them aside like pebbles in a lake. 

“How filthy,” Dorian says, sounding delighted. “A rogue mage and an ex-templar of the Inquisition.” He unbuckles Cullen’s armor with deft fingers, easing the breastplate from under the heavy drape of his robe. 

Cullen brushes the silks from Dorian’s shoulder, watching as they unravel from his body to reveal a slim, elegant robe. Dorian pulls back, meeting Cullen’s eyes as his hands fall to the braided cord around his waist. “It’s hardly fair to have me so exposed when you’re still ready to waltz into battle,” he says, toying with the knot. 

  


[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=mlnl36)

  


Cullen offers him a sly half-smile, amber eyes crinkling at the edges. He draws back, making quick work of his arm guards and shedding them easily. Dorian looks on with an irresistible smirk, eyes devouring Cullen as he slowly reveals himself beneath the bulky armor. He tangles his fingers in the fur at Cullen’s neck, guiding the heavy collar from his broad shoulders and resting it over the chair. 

“Much better,” he purrs, turning back to the abashed Commander. Cullen is left in his plainclothes, obscured only by the rich red cloth fastened like a tunic around his waist. He feels lighter, electrified by the unfamiliar thrill of vulnerability. It twists like a heat in his veins, prickling his skin and straining the unforgiving leather of his pants. Yet there’s a part of him that wants to resist, lash out like a viper at the warning tinge of magic in the air – and still another part that wants to curl up, hide his scars before they can spill his torments. 

He takes a long, shuddering breath, head swimming with hesitation and desire. “Are we even now?” he asks, casting the thoughts aside and pinching off his gloves. 

“Quite nearly,” Dorian breathes. If he’s noticed Cullen’s pause, he pays it no mind; Cullen is more than thankful for his tact. “Except…” He tilts his head sensually, letting the sleeved side of his robe dip to reveal his honeyed skin. “I would wager that you’re wearing smallclothes underneath all that delectable leather, and I regrettably cannot say the same.” He runs a hand up his waist, very deliberately catching a finger on the silk and letting it lift to the bare curve of his thigh. 

He grins smugly, watching as Cullen’s eyes trace the movement. He lets the fabric fall after a moment, drawing the ex-templar in with skillful, promising fingers. “I seem to have forgotten them,” he breathes, fingers toying with the belt on Cullen’s waist. “I _do_ hope you’ll forgive me.” 

Cullen guides his hands to the buckle, relishing in the feather-light brush of Dorian’s touch. “There’s no need for apology,” he says, unable to disguise the want in his voice. His tunic falls from him in one fluid motion, and he is left with nothing but the thin linen of his shirt and the laces of his trousers to bar him from Dorian. “I have always found smallclothes terribly impractical, with armor such as this.” His words are punctuated by a rare smirk, lifting the corner of his mouth slowly. 

Dorian gives him a wicked, delighted grin. “You _are_ a man of surprises,” he croons, tongue darting out to wet his lips. His fingers drift to the laces of Cullen’s breeches, tracing the criss-cross pattern. 

Cullen’s hand comes to rest over his, stilling him almost reluctantly. “I want to see you first,” he breathes out, flush lighting up his spine like a flare. “If… that’s alright.” 

Dorian preens, visibly pleased at Cullen’s boldness. He curls his sash around one finger, smiling as he pulls it from his body. The robe parts, and Cullen is met with the dazzling sight of him – smooth, every curve contoured to perfection. His toned chest tapers into a trim waist, hipbones tracing a sharp V to the glistening swell of his half-hard cock. Cullen indulges briefly in the sight, eyes roaming Dorian’s body to land on the thin golden hoops decorating his pert nipples. 

His breath catches in his throat, and Dorian’s eyes trace his line of sight. “Oh, you like them?” he breathes, hand sliding up his body to trace one. “They seem to be popular, among my clients.” 

Cullen is drawn back to the moment, swallowing thickly as he reminds himself where he is. _A brothel. With an escort._ He always thought escorts to be particularly skilled actors, in part – but _Maker_ , he hopes Dorian isn’t acting with the way he looks at Cullen like he wants to devour him. “I’ve never known someone with them,” he manages, forcing his gaze back to Dorian’s face. 

“That’s the wonderful thing about these, though,” Dorian says, lazily tracing a hoop with his finger. “You could have them all along, and nobody would ever know – it’s like a filthy little secret.” He grins at Cullen, grey eyes crinkling around the edges in wicked amusement. 

Cullen savors the look, his breeches growing tighter at the sultry tone of Dorian’s voice. “ _Maker,_ you’re gorgeous,” he says, allowing the reverent honesty to creep into his voice. 

Dorian takes Cullen’s hand, brushing his thumb over the knuckles before bringing it to his chest. Cullen’s fingers splay out instinctually, and Dorian seems to gravitate eagerly to the warmth of his touch. “If you think I’m so handsome,” he asks, voice smoldering, “then why don’t you show me?” 

Cullen doesn’t need to be told twice. He presses forward, free hand cupping Dorian’s jaw as he leans in to kiss him. His mouth is hot, desperate, unyielding against Dorian’s pliant lips. He all but groans as Dorian licks into his mouth, teeth lingering on his lip. He can feel the tension cresting, growing hot in the friction between them. Dorian catches Cullen’s lower lip between his again, sucking as he pulls away. 

Cullen groans, flush with need. He can feel every inch of Dorian’s skin beneath his fingertips, skirting along the broad expanse of the mage’s chest to thumb delicately at a nipple. Dorian responds in earnest, encouraging him with quiet gasps. He unfurls like a flower for Cullen, head arched in submission. Cullen wants to feel all of him beneath his hands, rough and calloused on smooth and tawny – _his,_ just for the night. His hands drift to Dorian’s hips, circling hard as he pins him to one of the bedposts. 

Dorian parts from him, his breath a warm tingle on Cullen’s lips. His eyes open, half lidded, and they’re positively _smoldering_ in the candlelight. He wastes no time in snaking his fingers back to Cullen’s breeches, unlacing the leather and easing it over his weeping cock. He looks down, long enough that Cullen almost feels self conscious, before his tongue darts out to wet his lips. He traces the head almost reverently, and Cullen’s breath catches in his throat. 

It’s been a long time since someone touched him like this. He nearly forgot how good it felt, to have another person guiding him to pleasure. And to be here, with someone so impossibly attractive as Dorian… _maker,_ he’s going to have to thank Bull later. 

Dorian teases Cullen’s length once, twice, before taking it in a firm grip, thumb darting out to fondle his slit. Cullen moans against his shoulder, a drawn-out gasp that has his fingers scrambling for purchase over Dorian’s hips. Dorian sighs, delighted, leaning in to trace his lips over the shell of Cullen’s ear. “You are quite a sight to behold,” he whispers, his voice lower than Cullen has heard it all night. The words send a litany of shivers down his back. 

“I could hardly hold a candle to you,” he says after a weighty breath, hand delving out to trace the smooth contour of Dorian’s ass. 

Dorian shifts, laughing as his lips find the tender spots on Cullen’s neck. “Ah, but I see myself every day. You, on the other hand…,” he murmurs against Cullen’s collarbone, “you, I’d like to explore.” 

“Explore?” Cullen breathes, kneading Dorian’s ass just enough to earn a fledgling gasp. 

Dorian drops to his knees without warning, sultry lips curled into a wide smile. Cullen automatically cards a hand through his dark hair, breath catching in his throat at the sight. “ _Explore_ ,” he repeats, taking hold of Cullen’s cock by the root. “Like now, for example, I want to taste every last inch of you.” He starts to jerk Cullen off lazily, mouth tantalizingly close to his swollen head. “I want you to fuck my mouth, _Cullen_. Make me taste you for days, make me suck you dry. Can you do that?” 

“Maker, _yes,_ ” Cullen all but growls, guiding Dorian’s plush lips over him. Dorian takes him readily, mouth wrapping around his thick cock in a practiced motion. He sucks greedily, fingers still kneading at the base of Cullen’s cock. Cullen groans, free hand grasping the bedpost to steady himself. He tightens his fingers in Dorian’s hair, testing his grip generously. 

It earns him a heady moan, muffled by the weight of his cock in Dorian’s mouth. He pulls harder, easing Dorian down onto him. Dorian works the foreskin back, lapping eagerly at his exposed shaft while his fingers drift down to rub at Cullen’s tender skin. Dorian cups his balls and tugs gently, swallowing easily when Cullen bucks into his mouth. 

“You like that, do you?” Cullen rasps, brushing Dorian’s hair out of his face. He wants to _see_ this, wants to see the way Dorian gorges himself on Cullen’s length. Dorian’s eyes flicker up to his and— _oh,_ he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more alluring. Dorian’s pupils are blown wide, hazy and sated with his lips stretched around Cullen. Cullen thinks there’s something smug to the way they crinkle at the edges, like he knows the effect he’s having. 

And it _is_ quite the effect. Cullen’s cock throbs against the flat of Dorian’s tongue, needy. Dorian takes it in stride, guiding his mouth up and down over the length of him. Cullen starts to work his hips, finds a steady rhythm with the wet heat of Dorian’s mouth. He’s got a white-knuckled grip on the bedpost now, the muscles in his abdomen clenching with restraint, his hips straining to keep the pace when all he wants to do is bury himself in that sinful mouth—

Dorian kneads at Cullen’s ass insistently, forcing him closer until his lips are all but flush against the root of his cock. He draws back, slamming down hard enough to make Cullen moan with the surprise of it. Dorian’s eyes are more than half-lidded now, almost pleading as he ruts against the hand in his hair. He does it again once, swirling his tongue along the head, before Cullen takes over. 

His pace quickens, hand clenching Dorian’s hair and pulling him in to meet the base of his cock. The action earns him a delicious mewl, nails raking down the tops of his thighs in a way that makes his back arch. “ _Ah_ —like that?” he says, cupping Dorian’s jaw and tugging him up to meet Cullen’s eyes. 

The sight of Dorian on his knees, precome trailing down the side of his mouth as he takes Cullen whole, is enough to ignite the spark of heat coiled in the pit of his stomach. He groans, fingers going slack in Dorian’s hair. Dorian swallows around him deliberately, eyes glinting with mischievous pleasure. He makes a low sound of approval, throat humming around Cullen’s dick and _maker_ he won’t last long, he can feel it cresting like a wave over him—

“Going to... ah – _Dorian_ —“

The wave breaks in white-hot sparks of pleasure down his spine. He groans low, spilling into the wet, _tight_ heat of Dorian’s mouth. Dorian takes him eagerly, slack-jawed, swallowing down his erratic thrusts. He sucks Cullen dry through the trembling aftershocks, only parting from him when Cullen tightens the hand in his hair again. 

Dorian rubs at his jaw with jeweled fingers, stretching it into a taut smile. “ _My_ ,” he says, tongue brushing across his swollen lip to catch the last of Cullen’s seed. “You _do_ make good on your promises, don’t you?” 

Cullen heaves a stilted breath, still finding his voice in the wake of his orgasm. “I told you I’m a man of my word,” he says breathlessly, fingers carding almost fondly through Dorian’s hair. He has to stop himself from leaning in to taste that grin – and oh, but he wants to. He’s hardly a romantic, but he feels bewitched by Dorian all the same. _I want more,_ he thinks suddenly, aching with the weight of it. 

He thinks of his tent in Haven, of the hard cot and the whistling draft and the slow creep of loneliness. What he wouldn’t give to have a warm body like this, a warm _smile_ like this, to light the grey of his winter mornings. 

He swallows, hand going still in Dorian’s hair. He’s a fool. He’s a fool and he doesn’t know this man laying prostrate beneath him, looking for all the world like a lover caught in the midst of passion. _I want to_ , he thinks, but he knows it isn’t quite true – he wants _this_ , some fireside fantasy…

And a terribly _expensive_ one, at that. 

Dorian – glorious, make-believe lover Dorian – stands, then, brushing his broad hands up Cullen’s sides. “Is something wrong, my honorable knight?” he asks, voice lilting with the warmth of his joke. “Do forgive me, but you look as if you were the one that did the swallowing.” 

Cullen laughs nervously, startled out of his thoughts. “I’m sorry. I should have warned you.” 

The corner of Dorian’s mouth perks into a broad grin. “Is that what has you so worried? Honorable indeed.” 

Cullen lets his eyes linger on Dorian’s lips, the way they curve into the perfect smile. He can see that Dorian is still flush and wanting, cock heavy with arousal between his thighs. 

He wants to bury himself in it, that maddening, toe-curling ecstasy. _Just for tonight,_ he tells himself, thinking back to the card game. _This is what I need – only_ this. 

Cullen guides Dorian back against the bed, squaring a hand on his chest and pushing down slow. “I can think of a few ways to be dishonorable,” he says, and Dorian’s wicked grin is the only answer he needs. 


	3. III. morn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen has little time to recover from his illicit encounter before a familiar face surfaces among the Inquisition's ranks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plot and sundry. some rehashing of in-game dialogue, but mostly angsty cullen (and a reappearance of everyone's favorite tevinter mage!) my bad for not getting this out in a more timely manner - i'll try to make sure it doesn't happen again :(  
> in the meantime, please enjoy! leave comments and kudos to let me know what you think of it xx

Cullen wakes with a quiet gasp. 

His skin is warm in the cool morning air, and he wipes halfheartedly at the sweat beading on his brow. The air is still, calm, breathing quiet life into the dawn. 

It does little to soothe the frantic beat of his heart. He groans, propping himself up on his elbow and feeling a deep ache spike through him. He is aroused, hot with need beneath all of the furs – he cannot help but flush, ashamed. He is rarely startled awake by anything less than a nightmare. But this… 

The escort’s face swims in his mind, body drawn out languid beneath him. He can feel breath hot on his neck, hands wondering, lips parted, back arched – 

He sighs, relieving himself of his blankets and letting the sudden cold do its job to calm his nerves. The memory is still vivid, fresh, and he has to curl his fingernails into his palm to draw him back to reality. _Just a dream._

This isn’t the first of its kind. The lyrium ache makes it worse, bleeds color into the dreams and sets his skin ablaze. Daylight chases his memories, buried under the weight of his work, but they come crawling back in the night just as vivid as his memories of Kinloch. He would do good to forget, he has reminded himself sternly; grey eyes, a quiet gasp – just another temptation, another ache curling in his ribcage. He thought he might forget the face in time, forget the heady sound of Dorian’s voice, but the dream draws him back to that night like it was yesterday. 

He curls his fingernails into his palm again, clearing his mind. He can’t feed this fire – he _won’t_. 

He pulls on his armor quickly, wincing as he laces his breeches over his slowly softening cock. The tent shivers with a gentle gust of wind as he draws the flap open. The world is still and white around him, stretching beyond the tents to the growing gold of the horizon. The sunlight crawls like vines up the sturdy bricks of the chantry, igniting the stained glass panes in dazzling, fractured hues. 

Flecks of snow catch in the early morning rays, floating hazy in the quiet of the camp. He takes a deep breath of cold air, feels it sharpen his senses. Until the Inquisition had made camp in Haven, he had all but forgotten his love for the snow. 

Kirkwall had been tall stone buildings and mist on the water, shrouded tendrils and the dance of firelight in alleyways. The bustling port city is nothing like the crisp mountain air, prickling his skin in the early morning. He closes his eyes, remembering the lush cool of his Honnleath home—the distant mountains, the patchwork roofs, the cobblestone pathways. It feels too much like Haven, especially now in the morning hours, and the crunch of snow beneath his feet makes him ache for a home he long ago left behind. 

This sleepy town was like Honnleath, once. Now its still countryside is dotted with the harsh trappings of battle, tents rising over the foliage like looming shadows. _War_ …the thought of it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. How many years has it been since he knew anything but the slow burn of war? 

A panicked voice cuts through the haze of morning light, startling him from his reverie. “Commander?” The boy sounds young, afraid, and his eyes are wide as saucepans. 

Cullen finds himself stiffening, drawing to his full height and squaring his shoulders in military stance. His dream is forgotten, lost in the grey, wistful morning. “Report.” 

“The Herald…,” the runner pants, obviously winded from sprinting over. “She… the Spymaster tracked the Venatori presence, they’re preparing to lay siege—“

Panic sears through Cullen. “Where?” he prompts urgently. 

“The, er, brothel, sir,” the young soldier says, collecting himself. “Your presence… requested at the war room.” 

Cullen could laugh at the timing, if it weren’t so dire. He wonders briefly about Dorian’s safety, but his mind is too ablaze with fledgling worries. _Priorities_ , he reminds himself harshly. “I’ll make haste,” he says. He starts toward the chantry, turning as an afterthought to give the boy a brief look of reassurance. “Thank you.” 

His tent is blessedly close to the great chantry doors, and he gives the guardsman a brief nod as he passes. Josephine and Cassandra are waiting for him, clustered around the table. 

“Cullen,” Josephine says, pleasant voice colored with relief. Her usually smooth silk blouse is rumpled, and there’s a tired look in her eyes that makes Cullen think that he wasn’t the only one startled out of a sleepy morning. 

He works his way around the table, surveying the letter she hands him. 

“I assume the runner explained the situation?” Cassandra asks, her voice stern and crisp as the mountain air. Cullen nods, and she shuffles her papers approvingly. “Leliana just dispatched a team with the Herald. What you are holding is a letter from the Spymaster’s informant. It arrived just before dawn on horseback… there was no time to waste, I’m afraid.” 

Below a string of symbols is a quickly scrawled sentence, decoded hastily by one of Leliana’s men. 

_Suspicions confirmed. No time. Meet me at the perch at first light. Bring only your elite – he must not know we’re coming._

The parchment curls at the edges, bare of a signature. 

“And this informant…?” Cullen trails off, looking up from the brief letter. 

“Leliana said he is to be trusted,” Cassandra confirms. There have been whispers of Venatori activity for weeks, a prowling shadow in the streets of Haven — Cullen can only guess at how the Spymaster managed to secure a lead with such urgency. 

“Shall I call for reinforcements?” he asks. 

Josephine steadies her writing board. “You should ready your men, but I would not advance. This mission requires a…delicate hand.” 

Cullen nods, staying only briefly before returning to rally his troops. Cassandra meets him outside of his tent, describing to him what little else they know of the situation at hand. They lapse into silence then, two sentinels with their shoulders squared to the cold, waiting for word from the village. 

The pines shudder, heavy with frost. The wind whispers soft flecks of snow into Cullen’s hair, carrying with it the distant sounds of his troops – but no news. 

The sun starts to warm the fur at his neck, and tension swims in his belly. Surely enough time has passed, he thinks. _Should I hail my men?_

He clears his throat, ready to pose the idea to Cassandra, but she silences him with a hand on his shoulder. 

“One of Leliana’s scouts,” she says urgently. The underbrush rustles, muffled, and a woman in light armor emerges from the thick of the forest. 

Cullen advances behind Cassandra, hungry for information. “What news?” he asks, steeling himself for the worst. 

“The Venatori were captured, Commander,” the scout says, and he feels a weight lifted suddenly from his shoulders. 

“And the Herald?” Cassandra asks, her lips drawn into a thin frown. 

“She is safe, Seeker.” 

The lines on Cassandra’s face smooth, and she draws back. 

“She rides for camp now with the allied mages,” the scout continues, clasping her hands behind her. 

“ _Mages?_ ” Cullen and Cassandra ask at once. 

The scout dips into a shallow bow, reluctant to share the news. “The Herald, messeres. She recruited the mages under the Venatori’s control.” 

“I see,” Cassandra says in a clipped tone, and Cullen thinks it’s almost comical how short-lived their relief has been. 

“Spymaster Leliana will meet you in the War Room with her informant.” The scout bows again, scurrying past them to the safety of camp. 

“ _Mages_ ,” Cassandra repeats incredulously, turning back towards the yawning Chantry gates. 

Cullen follows, glancing out towards the sleepy rooftops of the village and wondering briefly what became of the brothel. “An unexpected addition indeed,” he agrees, turning his back to the morning sun. 

  
\-------------------------  


  


Cullen braces his hands on the table, leaning over to survey the reports. “It’s not a matter for debate,” he says gravely, turning back to the other advisors. “There will be abominations among the mages, and we must be prepared.” 

Josephine’s delicate brows draw together. She shifts her board from hand to hand, worrying a lip between her teeth. “If we rescind the offer of an alliance, it makes the Inquisition appear incompetent at best, and tyrannical at worst.” 

Cullen runs a hand through his disheveled hair, loosing the blonde strands. He sighs in irritation and pushes them away from his forehead. “What were you thinking, turning mages loose with no oversight?” He implores, turning to Trevelyan. “The veil is torn open!” 

Moira squares her shoulders, defiant. “We _need_ the mages’ cooperation,” she says hotly. Her hands are white-knuckled on her staff, and Cullen can tell she’s trying to temper her frustration. _Perhaps it’s best that I do the same,_ he thinks. “Taking them as prisoners isn’t going to commit them to our cause any more than it did Alexius’s.” 

Cullen draws his furs around himself, sighing. “How many lives will be lost if they fail? With the veil open, the threat of possession…” He looks to Cassandra halfheartedly, already sensing defeat. “You were there, Seeker. Why didn’t you intervene?” 

Cassandra looks severe, arms drawn to her chest. “While I may not completely agree with the decision, I support it,” she says pointedly. “The sole point of the Herald’s mission was to gain the mage’s aid, and that was accomplished.” 

An unfamiliar voice joins in then, sparking a note of amusement in the sullen room. 

“The voice of pragmatism speaks! And here I was, just starting to enjoy the circular arguments.” 

The advisors turn to greet the stranger, and Cullen’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of a familiar figure. _It can’t be._

“Ah, I was hoping you would join us,” Moira says, the tension easing from her shoulders. She greets the man warmly, and – _maker_ , he even has the same smile as Dorian. _There has to be some mistake,_ Cullen thinks desperately, fighting to mask his surprise. This man is clad in mage armor instead of silks, and the easy grace that Cullen remembers seems so much more out of place in the tense war room. 

Josephine shifts, greeting the man with a polite nod. “Seeker, Commander… this is Lord Dorian of House Pavus, Altus of the Tevinter Imperium.” 

_Lord Dorian._ The same man, then, but… _not_. Dorian turns survey him, then, and he doesn’t realize he’s been staring until those familiar grey eyes crinkle at the edges. 

“A pleasure. The Herald has already told me so much about her dear advisors,” Dorian says easily, extending a hand. Cullen watches from what feels like an insurmountable distance, his mind a blur of confusion. _Does he not remember me? No – of course he wouldn’t_. His heart hammers in his chest, and he knows he has no right to feel as disappointed as he is. 

“I promise I don’t bite,” Dorian prompts, his hand still extended. There’s a mischievous gleam in his eye that sends Cullen’s mind whirring again. 

Cullen grasps his hand abruptly, giving it a hearty shake. “Ah, the pleasure is ours, Lord Pavus.” 

_Lord Pavus_ – the words taste strange on his tongue. 

Leliana watches the exchange, a tremor of thought flitting across her face. “Dorian was our informant,” she explains. “Without him, success would not have been possible today.” 

“Such a pleasant introduction,” Dorian lilts, leaning candidly on his staff. “And here I believed you Southerners to be completely devoid of charm.” 

Cassandra surveys him with something akin to distrust. “A noble Altus. What were you doing in Haven?” 

Leliana intercepts the exchange, laying a reassuring hand on Cassandra’s shoulder. “Dorian was working undercover,” she says. 

Dorian chuckles dismissively. “An awfully quaint way of putting it,” he says. “My _employment_ at the brothel provided excellent cover while I kept an eye on my former mentor and his apparent plans to overthrow all of Thedas.” 

“So you didn’t know of this Alexius’s plans?” Cassandra presses. 

“Not entirely.” Dorian shifts, drawn further into the room. “Until I caught word of his research, I hadn’t had any contact with my former friends in Tevinter for some time.” 

Moira pats his shoulder fondly. “We’re all terribly lucky that you stepped in when you did.” Whatever happened between them at the brothel must have been a trying experience, Cullen thinks, for her to warm to him so quickly. 

“Luck, my dear, had nothing to do with it.” Dorian’s answering smile is gracious, every bit as magnetic as Cullen remembers it. 

“Regardless, we should look into the things you saw in this dark future,” Leliana suggests, sharp reality tugging Cullen’s thoughts to a close. “The assassination of Empress Celine… a demon army.” 

Cullen is thankful for the distraction. “I’ll begin preparations to march on the summit.” He gathers his papers, forcing his gaze from Dorian. “Maker willing, the mages will be enough to grant us victory.” 


	4. IV. witching hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even in his new Skyhold home, Cullen is still haunted by memories of Dorian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so we've officially caught up to what i have chronologically written for this fic! that means that the next chapter might come out a little bit later.   
> plenty of slow burn here, and my beloved trevelyan playing matchmaker :)
> 
> let me know what you thought with comments + kudos!

Cullen draws the firs to his neck, a tremor running through him. He groans and curls against the cold, bedroll hard on the unforgiving ground. His mind flashes with the fleeting vestiges of a dream, hazy – 

_A man in mage armor, smiling. He shifts, blurs, and suddenly he is draped in shimmering silks instead. The silks slip low, lower, revealing his bare skin to the candlelight…_

A fierce warmth steals through Cullen, stinging his skin in the cold. _Dorian._ He’s plagued by the thought of him. Before, he could temper the memories with reassurances of _I’ll never see him again_ and _I can’t go back._ But now Dorian is _here,_ and Cullen can’t help but catch glimpses of him chatting blithely with Moira or training his staff in the lazy dawn. He tries – terribly so – not to notice the way Dorian’s arms move when he casts a spell, muscles contracting, fabric straining against the hard planes of his body…

He knows now that the intelligence, the easy charm, the aristocratic grace – none of it was an act. But the smoldering spark between them? _Just another trick of magic,_ Cullen thinks guiltily. They hadn’t spoken so much as a word to each other in the week since Alexius’s arrest. 

_As it should be._ Dorian is no courtesan, now. And he’s not the man he was then, either, reclining in Dorian’s bed and exploring his mouth in languid strokes. He’s the _Commander of the Inquisition,_ he reminds himself fiercely – but the blush still strikes over his shoulders, unhindered by his waking resolve. 

The sudden sound of voices interrupts his thoughts. They well up like spilt ink, growing frantic in the night. Cullen brushes aside the firs and pulls on a shirt, peering out from the safety of his tent flap. 

“Soldier!” he calls, hailing down one of the night guards. “What’s going on?” 

“Lights, sir – in the distance. Torches. Leliana’s scouts are leaving now – “

“Why did nobody wake me sooner?” 

“I just awoke myself,” Cassandra says from behind him, still pulling together the buckles on her armor. She looks severe in the torchlight, brow drawn in anticipation. 

“We have soldiers posted for miles, _maker_ – how could they…”

“They came from the mountains, sir,” the soldier says, pointing a gloved hand to the hulking shadows on the horizon. 

Cullen looks past him, to where the mountains meet the night sky. There – hundreds of tiny lights, hazy, growing slowly brighter…

“I want every man on his feet,” he says resolutely. “The town – have men stationed in the town. Bring the villagers to the chantry.” 

“Yessir.” The soldier sprints away into the sea of tents, the cacophony of waking voices rising around him. Cullen nods to Cassandra, fear stealing through him. 

“I’ll meet you at the War Table.” 

He dresses quickly, dashing from the tent, and the night bleeds into a smear of deep, deep red. 

  
\-------------------------  


There are flashes in the night. Blue spells, and green ones, and the slow orange burn of torches. They surge and waver, stealing across the mirrored steel of his sword, and then – nothing. Everything is swallowed in white. 

The cries of the sick and dying are muffled by the snow. His boots crunch in the dark, and the Herald’s name echoes off the mountains in distant, endless iterations. 

“Moira!” 

_Moira._

She was fire – a spark for the people. A _good_ woman. He’s seen so many good people die. 

_But not her._ Maker, _please,_ not her. 

The night rings with her name, and then – a cry for help? 

She comes out of the dark like a single ray of light, piercing the night. Dorian is the first to reach her, arm coming around her waist to support her. 

She slumps against him and… smiles. Weary. _Alive._

The hymn starts in his mind, then, pours out later, a thousand raised to the heavens in a single prayer. 

_For one day soon, the dawn will come._

  
\-------------------------  


The view from the ramparts is breathtaking. 

Skyhold sits like a giant, unwavering creature atop the mountains, stealing into the cavernous abyss. The mountainsides are sewn with snow, and Cullen can see the peaks stretching for miles into the far grey sky. 

There’s nothing hazy about the cold here – it’s sharp, a living thing, stealing through his armor like a sickness. 

He shudders, remembering the lazy snowfall of Haven. _Haven_ – the winds whistle across empty planes there, yawning stretches of white where houses once stood. 

Entire lives, snuffed like flames in the wake of the mountain. _I could not save them all._

He runs his fingers over the marbled stone, feeling his chest grow heavy. _Not now,_ he thinks. _Not when there’s so much to do._

Footsteps echo on the cobblestone behind him, and he turns to see Moira mounting the steps in easy strides. 

“Do you ever get cold?” she says lightly, crossing her own arms over her chest for warmth. 

Cullen offers her a crooked smile, turning from the picturesque view. “I haven’t been warm since we arrived,” he confesses, drawing his own pauldron closer to his neck. 

Moira leans against the stone wall, casting her eyes to the cliffs beyond. “That might have something to do with the hole in your roof,” she teases. 

Cullen only shrugs, bracing his hands on the wall and following her gaze. “There are more important repairs to be made.” 

Moira shakes her head, incredulous. “And here I thought I was supposed to be the martyr,” she says, folding her arms atop the great, broad slabs of stone. “We can’t have our Commander working himself to death.” 

“Better me than another village.” Cullen’s voice is lighter than his heart, weighed with the burden of his failures. 

Moira stares at him solidly. Sometimes it feels like she can see right through him, fire piercing the ice that’s settled in his bones. “And what about all the people you saved?” she asks, her soft mouth hardened by determination. “Who’s going to lead them to battle?” 

Cullen opens his mouth to say something, but she waves away the harsh mood with a flick of her wrist. “Come play chess with me,” she says warmly, hand coming to rest on his broad shoulder. “ _Please_ – the courtyard is so beautiful, with all the underbrush cleared away.” 

The warmth of her touch chases away some of the heaviness in Cullen’s chest, and he manages a half-smile. “Is that an order, Inquisitor?” 

Slow, kindling rays of light peek over the far side of the mountain, and Moira smiles broadly at him. “It absolutely is, dear Commander.” 

  
\-------------------------  


“I do _hate_ chess,” Moira says stubbornly, crossing her legs over the chair and peering down at the checkered board. 

“I daresay you hate _losing_ ,” Cullen ventures, pushing another piece into place. 

She laughs at that, throwing up her hands in surrender. “I got you out of your office. That’s enough victory for one day.” 

“Now, now, Inquisitor,” a voice says from behind Cullen, startling him. “Evil never rests. You may very well have to save the world again before supper.” 

A warmth shoots up Cullen’s spine, spilling in a flush across the back of his neck. He recognizes that voice. 

“ _Dorian_ ,” Moira crows, standing from her wicker chair, “you’ve come to save me.” 

Cullen turns, and there he is – Dorian, reclining against a white lattice and smiling like a cat that caught the mouse. His dark hair is framed by a thicket of pale roses, and his grey eyes flicker to Cullen…

“I do hope I wasn’t interrupting,” he says, dipping into a lazy bow. “I’m sure you were quite looking forward to besting the Inquisitor.” 

Cullen finds his voice, eyes tracing up the rose vines to where they form a halo around Dorian’s head. “On the contrary,” he says, “I’d rather not be divested of my title.” 

Dorian laughs, tipping his head back, and the petals fall like rain where his hair brushes them. “Oh, but do you really think our dear Lady Trevelyan is _that_ terrible a loser?” 

Moira crosses the table – _no,_ Cullen thinks, _don’t leave me alone with him_ – and fixes Dorian with a sly smile. “I might well be, if you keep trying to flirt our Commander into an early grave.” 

The blush blooms across his cheeks now, unbidden. Surely Dorian wasn’t _flirting?_ A look passes between them, and he wonders fretfully if he’s missed something…

“Don’t be so cross, dear,” Dorian teases, brushing his fingers down Moira’s arm in a dramatic flourish. “You know yours is the only attention I could ever desire.” 

Cullen is silent, hands folded in his lap. _Are they…?_ He feels curiosity well in his chest, tempered with the guilty weight of disappointment. 

Moira bats his hand away, and her smile is bright as the cloudless sky. “Don’t be foolish,” she says. “I think your _attention_ is better suited to the Commander right now. Perhaps you can avenge my loss?” 

“Only if the Commander so desires,” Dorian quips, and Cullen feels overwhelmed by the weight of their stares. 

“It would be my pleasure,” he says, clearing his throat and rearranging the marble pawns. 

“Excellent,” Dorian exclaims, settling himself across from Cullen. “I do _love_ a good battle of the wits.” 

Moira rests a hand on Cullen’s shoulder, leaning in to murmur her goodbyes. “If you think I’m a sore loser, you just wait,” she says, and Cullen wishes he could ask her to stay. “We should do this again sometime, hm?” 

He nods, and she is gone. 

“Such a fiery one,” Dorian says warmly, crossing his arms over his lap. 

“Yes,” Cullen agrees, pushing the pawns into their neat little squares. 

“I am sorry to have interrupted – she was looking at me from across the courtyard with such terrible distress, I simply had to come and tease her.” 

“It’s alright,” Cullen says, and the tension in his chest starts to dissipate. “I’m just thankful to have a more willing partner.” 

Dorian’s answering smile cuts through him even more sharply than the cold. “The pleasure is mine, Commander.” 

Cullen clears his throat, surveying the chess pieces in their neat rows. “You can call me Cullen,” he offers, thankful for the cover of thick fur around his neck. “Cullen Rutherford–”

“I know who you are,” Dorian says, silver eyes twinkling with amusement. 

Cullen looks at him, the words dying in his throat. His lips part, as if to speak, but he wets them instead. _When did my mouth get so terribly dry?_

“I… yes. We’ve met before,” he ventures impulsively, and the words send panic searing through his veins. He hadn’t even _thought_ about breaching the subject, not seriously, and he wishes suddenly that he’d been less callous. It’s bold, sudden, and he wants to take the words back, gulp them down from the air around them – 

“Yes, we have,” Dorian affirms neutrally. He is calm, poised, _confident_. Cullen stiffens with surprise – could he really be so collected, thinking back on their first meeting? 

“I, ah, thought you might have forgotten.” 

Dorian lifts his eyes to Cullen’s, smiling impishly. “Don’t fool yourself, Commander. You’re not so easy to forget.” 

His gaze sears Cullen through to the core. “You made no mention of it, in Haven,” Cullen says mildly, fighting for Dorian’s graceful nonchalance. 

“And disgrace you in front of your colleagues?” Dorian shifts, resting graceful hands atop his bended knee. “I may be mischievous, dear Commander, but I’m hardly so cruel." 

“I… of course.” He feels every bit the fool, so startled by Dorian’s effortless words. Such an inconsequential revelation¬¬, in the vastness of Skyhold, and yet it sends him reeling…

The lilting warmth of Dorian’s voice interrupts his musings. “I was more inclined to think you’d rather forget about the whole sordid affair altogether,” he says dryly. 

“Not in the least,” Cullen interjects, perhaps too quickly. “Er, I meant – I suppose I’d rather have it out in the open.” 

Dorian rests his chin on his hands, toying with a pawn. “And now that you know?” 

Cullen is caught off-guard by the question. There’s more sincerity in Dorian’s voice than he could have hoped for, despite the mage’s casual air of indifference. “For once, I haven’t thought that far ahead,” he confesses with a guilty smile. 

Dorian laughs, a rich sound that fills the courtyard. “The great Commander, bested by _me_? Oh, Moira was right,” he says, delighted. “You’re terribly charming when you want to be.” 

Cullen flushes to his collar. “You flatter me.” 

“Yes, that was rather the point,” Dorian says drolly, one eyebrow rising in quaint amusement. 

Cullen clears his throat. “You and the Inquisitor,” he ventures, feeling bolder. “Are you two…?”

Both of Dorian’s eyebrows shoot up now, his face lit with comical surprise. “With _Moira_?” He asks incredulously. “Oh, heavens no. While I do hope to make a dear friend of her, I’m afraid she doesn’t suit my preferences.” 

“Ah.” Cullen chuckles along with him, feeling foolish for even suggesting it. He tries not to dwell on the implications, the _possibilities_ … 

“I don’t think I’ll ever be used to sharing that aloud.” Dorian tips his head to the side, smile faltering slightly. “One thing I must commend you Southerners for is your willingness to accept more… unusual appetites.” 

Cullen nudges one of his pawns forward, starting their forgotten game of chess. “Is that not true in Tevinter?” 

“Hardly,” Dorian says. He takes notice of Cullen’s actions, sliding one of his own pawns forward in response. “That sort of behavior bears little consequence amongst slaves and the soporati. But when your entire worth is reduced to breeding the ideal Tevinter specimen, such reckless behavior is considered… untoward.” He waves his jeweled hand dismissively, a brash frown coloring his face. 

“I’m…sorry.” Cullen looks down at the board, pretending to contemplate his next move. “You’re more than welcome here, in the Inquisition.” 

Dorian’s answering smile sets the courtyard ablaze with its warmth. “And such a merry band of misfits you are!” he exclaims, and Cullen can’t help but to laugh along with him. He shifts, crossing his legs and shaking his head in mock-wonderment. “What a strange predicament, to be among Thedas’s most controversial… Stranger yet, perhaps, to have met the way we did.” 

“Yes,” Cullen says rather awkwardly, grin faltering in the light of his uncertainty. “I hope it hasn’t made you uncomfortable. I never would have…requested your services, if I had known why you were really in Haven.” 

Dorian tips his head quizzically, a ponderous smirk curling his mouth. “You know, Commander, I was an escort long before Gregereon Alexius drew me to Haven.” He pushes one of the pawns forward, his movements slow and deliberate. “I must admit that I would be rather disappointed to have you regret everything.” 

Cullen rubs fiercely at the back of his neck, acutely aware of Dorian’s sharp, intelligent eyes on him. “I can assure you, Lord Pavus, it wasn’t regret.” 

Dorian fixes him with a lingering look, and Cullen can nearly _feel_ the way the blush sears up his spine. 

“Oh, please _do_ call me Dorian,” he says finally. “There’s a reason I’m not parading around Tevinter in magister’s robes.” 

Cullen relaxes back into his chair, thankful for the shift in conversation. “You must have quite the interesting story,” he says, finding that he’s suddenly interested in hearing it. 

Dorian smiles secretively. The light filters in delicate rays through the parapets, flashing a brilliant silver where it catches his eyes. “Perhaps I’ll tell it to you, someday.” 


End file.
